


Le Cygne

by Waypaststrange



Category: Carmilla (Web Series), Carmilla - All Media Types, Carmilla - J. Sheridan Le Fanu
Genre: Danseuse Laura, F/F, Fluff, I stayed up too late writing this, LaFontaine is a badass on the oboe, Minor Angst, Smut, Violinist Carmilla, swan lake AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-11 22:49:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5644687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waypaststrange/pseuds/Waypaststrange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Swan Lake AU in which Carmilla is a violinist who's just escaped her mother, Laura is a danseuse in the studio that always performs with the symphony, and LaFontaine is a badass oboe player. Enough said? I hope so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I watched the entirety of Swan Lake in preparation for this so I really hope it's accurate. I was too in love with the idea of this not to do it, and who needs sleep, anyway?

You’ve always loved the orchestra.  
You’re the first to admit you’re not exactly a people person, but you’ve always found that others are a lot more likeable when they have an instrument in their hands that they know what to do with.  
At the very least, it shuts them up.  
-

Mother started your violin lessons farther back than your memory reaches. It was always just _there_ , like another language you were raised speaking.  
There was English and the French you picked up from Mother and the housekeepers, and when those failed, you could always turn to music, comforting, familiar notes forever crawling up and down the sprawling staffs.  
You rubbed your fingers red-raw and even bled in the beginning, but you didn’t really care.

Sixth grade found you clutching your three-quarters size violin (you’d named it something, but you don’t quite remember anymore) and nervously plucking out muscle-memory-melodies at the front of the section while the rest of the kids oohed and aahed over the thin-sounding, worn student instruments. Your bow went utterly unused for the first two weeks while the teacher tried to coax the other students from violin to viola, from cello to bass. Kids always went straight for the things they recognized, and no one else had actually known what a viola _was_.  
_Some orchestra_ , you thought, eleven-year-old heart sinking.  
You never moved from the first chair, no matter how many kids challenged you. It was lonely, being the only one enrolled in lessons, the only one who seemed to care whether they were in tune or not, but it made Maman proud.

In high school you learned that she was never proud for long.

Your teacher was adamant that you perform in all the festivals that suddenly opened up. A chance to prove your worth, he called it. And he reported straight to Mother, so there was no escape for you.

The first time, you didn’t get into the command performance.  
Mother was not pleased.

This was communicated to you through an hour-long lecture that wavered between English and French. She only ever swore in French.  
Her fingers dug bruising lines into your wrist when she told you to try harder.

At the next festival, you made the performance.  
Mother’s smile seemed hollower than it ever had before.

You made very certain to make the command performance every time afterward. New sonatas, nocturnes, waltzes, whatever it took. Your teacher began to look at you with such sorrowful eyes when he understood, but he dutifully handed over sheafs of sheet music whenever you asked.  
The warmth you used to get in your chest when Mother complimented your playing was gone, but you played more and more anyway.  
One hour a day became two, then four. You tore through bow after bow after bow.

The love you held for that unspoken language became masked by the desperation to keep that cold glare out of Mother’s eyes. 

 

But then high school drew to a close. You and your violin (this one having been christened Bagheera) made it out of Mother’s shadow and escaped to university. Father’s age-old trust fund kept you from needing a job, and you stopped taking Mother’s calls.  
And you found that when you stepped into the music room, Bagheera in hand, that old love of music hadn’t deserted you.  
-  
And maybe majoring in philosophy hadn't been the wisest choice, because all it’s made you now is an editor for Silas Publishers. They’ve found plenty of New-Age philosophy novels for you to wade through, and now you know _way_ more about healing crystals than you’d ever intended.  
But you can always quote Nietzsche to defend your life decisions.

And, after all, it gives you time for the symphony.  
Maybe it isn’t the most _official_ group you’ve ever played with (after all, you toured Europe with your youth orchestra back in junior year), but it makes you happy.  
About as happy as spending multiple hours in the company of others can make you.

 

The Lustig is large and looming in the evening, large swathes of the purple sky lost in its silhouette. As you shoulder your way past the door and your eyes adjust to the theater’s soft yellow lighting, you’re expecting the usual: musicians tuning, the ginger twins talking furiously amongst themselves, etc., etc.  
Instead, there are ballerinas.

 

“Tweedledee and Tweedledum!” You hiss at the gingers after seeing one girl do something with her legs that you hadn’t known was physically possible (but that maybe you should learn).

Perry frowns at you, but LaFontaine seems rather occupied, fiddling with their oboe. 

“What’s, uh-” you gesture as best you can with hands full of violin and music, “what’s going on here?”

“Didn’t you know? We perform once every two years with the ballet studio downtown.”  
“Yeah,” says LaFontaine, reed between their teeth, “why’d you think we learned the entire Swan Lake suite?”

You shrug. “Appreciation for Tchaikovsky?”

 

Before you have time to say anything else, Danny Lawrence, the symphony’s conductor and yet another ginger, is calling everyone to the center of the room.  
“Okay, this is how things are going to work. We’re going to run the main theme to give them a chance to warm up, then we’ll let their director take over, which probably means we’ll be spending the next few weeks running each scene at least ten times.”  
She winces. “Sorry, guys, but you know how it goes. Nothing more meticulous than ballet.”

Her words are proved horribly true, because you spend the next three hours on the first twenty minutes of music. The stage is behind the orchestra set-up, so you can’t see what’s going on, but you imagine the dancers must be doing _something_ wrong because the director is constantly berating them.

Three hours later, they finally concede for the night. A collective sigh goes up from the symphony.  
You’re exhaustedly packing up Bagheera, loosening your bow with a yawn, when you hear a thud and a squeak.  
When you look over your case, you see a girl on the ground.  
A pretty girl.  
This is the first thing you notice, and the second is that she’s in a white dress.  
The third is that she just tripped over your music stand.

You shake her head (really, she is quite pretty) and put down your bow to help her up.  
“Everything alright, cupcake?”

“Yeah,” she says, “just didn’t watch where I was going.” She blushes a little. “Happens a lot, actually.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t think ballerinas could be clumsy.”

This girl must blush easily, you think, because her face goes even redder. “You’d be surprised,” she mumbles.

“Well, cupcake,” you say, “I can’t blame you for this one. I shouldn’t have left my music stand out there. Even non-clumsy ballerinas would have tripped over it. I ought to make it up to you; a drink, maybe?”

She shakes her head. “I’d love to, but it’s late and I need sleep. Practice is from eight to three tomorrow and my legs (you note these with silent approval) are killing me.”  
She smiles at you, a little sadly. “Rain check?”

“Sure.” Your spirits fall a little.  
She’s about to walk away when you realize you don’t know her name.  
_Words, idiot. You used to be good at this._  
“Uh, can I get your name? You know, to put a name to,” you rake your eyes up her body with a good deal of appreciation, “this?”

“Laura.” She says. The blush returns to her cheeks; you can see your wandering eyes have not gone unnoticed, and you hope not unappreciated. “My name’s Laura.”

You extend a hand. “Carmilla. Nice to meet you, Laura.”  
You like the way her name sounds on your tongue.

“You too, Carmilla.”  
You like the way she says your name even more.

You can think of a couple ways to get her to say your name again, but now’s not the time for that.

“Well,” she says. “Goodnight.”

“Night, creampuff.” You wonder whether it bothers her that you prefer calling her the names of desserts to the name she gave you. If it does, she doesn’t say. “See you next week.”

 

The week passes in a whirlwind of practice and poring over text (Silas Publishers has decided you’re perfectly suited to proofread the new draft of the state’s AP Psychology textbook) and it’s a huge relief to find yourself back at the Lustig. You’d been unable to shake thoughts of honey-blonde hair and shy smiles.

Danny has apparently ceded most control to the whims of the director, because this time the orchestra is facing the stage (Clifford doesn’t look too happy about this development).  
Thankfully you make it past the first twenty minutes this time, and you start rehearsing from Scene II. The danseur playing Siegfried (you’d decided to read up on the play) struts pompously around the stage for a while with a crossbow before the music grows quiet and apprehensive for the appearance of Odette, the swan princess.

You almost stop playing when you realize that it’s Laura.  
It’s also a bit distracting that LaFontaine is just _killing it_ with the oboe solo, but you imagine that’s more difficult for Perry.

_Focus_ , you think. _Ogling later._  
Still, though, it’s difficult when the girl who tripped over your music stand last week has somehow become the most graceful thing you’ve ever seen. In a ridiculously short white dress, no less. God, you really hope she’s not straight.  
Siegfried's eyes linger a little too long over her, even for the sake of being in character, and it makes you inexplicably angry, but hey, you’re no saint, either.  
You find yourself minding the countless repetitions a lot less this time around.

You manage to catch up with her backstage, while she’s softly pulling her hair free of a myriad of pins.

“Hey, cupcake,” you say, leaning against some long-unused backdrop. “Glad I caught you before you could trip over another music stand.”

“Hey,” she breathes, bending over to unlace and slip off her slightly-murderous looking shoes (though you suspect they only appear frightening because of what they allow a dancer’s feet to do).

You twirl your keys on your finger. “Still up for that drink?” Your words are slow, measured. You’ve gotten a lot better at guarding your emotions over the years, muting expectancy. _Covering weakness_ , you think, but quickly shoo away the thought. Now’s not the time for thinking about Mother.

“ _God_ , yes,” she sighs, bringing your attention back to the here, the now, the important, and slumps against the wall, shoes dangling loosely from her hands. You realize just how much ballet must take out of any person, let alone such a _small_ one. “I don’t know how much more staring I can take.” You assume she’s referring to Siegfried (you don’t know his actual name, but honestly, it’s pretty in line with your usual nicknames; has a nice ring to it) and your hopes rise when her nose wrinkles in adorable distaste.

“Not a fan of being eyefucked by muscle-y danseurs?” You ask, raising an eyebrow, and mentally cross your fingers.

Her nose wrinkles further. “Eww, no. _Danseuses_ , on the other hand…”

You laugh, relieved. “I feel ya, cutie.”  
Car keys take another pass around your fingers. “Ready to go?”  
-  
You arrive at the bar to find Will locking up.  
Says something about a bar fight that ended badly, and gives you only a crooked grin and a shrug before heading home.  
You should’ve known better than to rely on your brother for a drink.

Laura’s standing behind you, and you realize as she shivers that she doesn’t have a coat, so you give her yours, perfect gentlewoman you sometimes remember to be.  
“Sorry about this, cupcake. Usually he’s open a lot later than this.”

“It’s fine,” she says softly, and your heart skips just a bit when you see her with your leather jacket over her shoulders. 

You exhale sharply and it huffs out in a thin cloud. God, you hate winter.  
“I can’t pretend it’ll be the same, but I’ve got drinks at my place…”  
_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

She says nothing.  
You try furiously to backpedal.  
“I mean, you shouldn’t feel obligated or anything, just- “

“That sounds great.” She smiles at you, jacket sliding off one shoulder, and it makes your breathing go funny for a couple more seconds.

You hope you have something sweeter than whiskey in your kitchen.  
-

The walk up to your apartment (broken elevator be damned) is silent as you lead her up stair flight after stair flight and through dark hallways. Neither of you are speaking, and yet you can feel this sort of _buzz_ , like radio static in your ears.  
By the time you’re outside the door, it’s fever-pitch and you look up from fiddling with your keys to see her looking at you in a way you can’t really describe. Even in the dark you can see her wide eyes. You hadn’t realized you were standing so close.

 

Before you can convince yourself it’s a bad idea, you find yourself leaning forward. Closing your eyes. 

It’s a ghost of a kiss. There is no sound, like your forward trajectory has launched the both of you into deep space, with only the distant stars for company. 

She smells like cinnamon.

You pull back and her eyes are still wide, gazing up at you. She reminds you of a deer in that moment, just stepped out of the brush and unsure of where to tread. You hover like that, for a moment that lasts an eternity, and then she blinks. Fingers curl into your belt loops and she tugs you forward again.  
This is not ghost-like. It’s infinitely more real, heady and raw. The hand not full of keys (these are currently digging into your palm) reaches up to thread in her hair and her hands are still pulling at your waist like she can never have you close enough.  
You taste vanilla on her tongue for a few blessed moments before you turn to press her up against your door and are forced to divert some attention to actually getting the door _open_.

Finally, you find the right key and the two of you half-stumble inside. You have to break the kiss, partially for air and partially to regain your sense of direction.  
You decide the wall by the door is a good place to stay for the next minute or so, with your tongue in her mouth and her hands sneaking under your shirt. You push your jacket off her shoulders and her fingers dig into your hips.  
It’s when her fingers travel further south that you’re forced to pause again. Your hands drag down her sides and you push her back gently.  
“Bed,” you whisper, and she is only too eager to follow.

The quiet is broken when you discover that a ballet dress is a _lot_ harder to remove than you realize and she giggles a bit into the side of your neck before helping you.  
When that’s finally accomplished and her dress is puddling on the floor, she returns her attention to your clothes.

 

You thank whatever stroke of luck or fate led to this happening, because _holy fuck_ Laura is beautiful, even more so with her hair spread out across your pillow and eyes full of this heavy-dark lust that you hadn’t known could show in eyes so sweet.  
You resolve not to waste this gift that is Laura Hollis, to map out this body and make it press into and arch back off your duvets, to take her apart with your fingers and mouth.

So that’s exactly what you do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, this took forever to write (like, twenty words a day forever), and I'm so sorry about that. Other things are in the works, I promise; life has just been heavier than usual as of late.  
> That said, enjoy!

It’s been a while since you did this.  
One-night stands were more your thing in college, when your head wasn’t yet clear of newfound freedom and young-adult-arrogance, but you’re still familiar with your routine.  
Wake early, get dressed, and get the hell out of there before the sun comes up.  
It works about 90% of the time.

But this is different in a lot of ways and you know it.  
It feels different.

For starters, this is your apartment. It would be quite a lot harder to make an early morning escape even if you had been planning on it.

It has to be before six, you think, the window yielding only the glow of faint stars and the fingernail moon against the purple-black and winter-cloudy night. Last time you did something like this you were gone by now, sleepily sticking to the plan, but this isn’t the same.  
Things break the patterns at certain places, like a shift in DNA epigenetic markers, changing gene expression and making the result something else entirely.  
(LaFontaine has really started to rub off on you.)

This is your place where before it was always someone else’s.  
You’re both sober where before you’d always been at least a little buzzed.  
She smells like cinnamon where all the girls before seemed to smell like citrus.  
(Is that a metaphor? You can't tell.)  
Your head is clear where before you were always fuzzy.  
And for once, this isn’t your show to run.  
She’s the one who could leave without a word in the morning. She decides if you’re worth her time or if she wants you out of her life.  
And you’d be lying if you said that didn’t scare you.

But it’s before six, and Laura’s still dead to the world and curled into you.  
Face buried in your neck.  
Exhales gathering in the hollow of your throat.  
One arm thrown over your waist.

You shift minimally and she almost stirs, a brief hum issuing in the back of her throat before she goes boneless again, a huffing sigh ghosting over your collarbones.  
There’ll be no movement, it seems.  
You think you can live with that.

  
When you wake again, she’s gone.

It’s still reasonably early, as outside the sun is low in the sky, hidden behind a wall of woolly grey clouds. You watch rain streak the glass for a little while, unwilling to leave the comfortable nest of blankets upon which the faint scent of cinnamon, of Laura, still lingers.  
You weren't expecting her to stay, but there's still something about waking up in bed alone that dampens your mood.

When you get up, the dull ache between your thighs is yet another mark Laura's left, and as you stretch and saunter into the kitchen, you grin at the thought of her leaving the same way, walking home with legs still unsteady from your hands. From your tongue.  
You do always give as good as you get.

You only notice the note when you're sitting at the table with jasmine-tea curls of steam wafting into the air, but there it is, tucked partway under the bowl you keep your keys in (they're not there now, and you have a sneaking suspicion they're still in the door).  
Her number is scrawled in tiny, looping script and you hum a laugh into your mug when you realize she's written on the back of one of your business cards.

  
You wait to text Laura until a few hours later, and, lady killer that you are, you greet her by complaining that she hadn't been there to shower with you.  
You can imagine the probable squeak she lets out when she reads it.

Laura is swamped with ballet rehearsals and preparations, but you manage to find a sliver of an evening in her schedule to ask her to dinner.  
You learn some important things that night:  
• Laura is a Rosé type of girl  
• Candlelight has the ability to make her look even more angelic than usual  
• Most cab drivers aren't exactly enthralled by two slightly-tipsy girls making out in the back of their cars, but they could care less if you throw enough dollar bills at them  
• Laura is a lot more bold this time around, hands going to press yours up against the headboard and whisper-threatening for you to keep them there while she traces lines down your stomach with her tongue  
• You're a lot more into that than you'd thought

 

You find yourself sleepily musing again in the early morning hours after one such evening, Laura's legs tangled with yours. You haven't dated anyone since, well, since Ell, and you don't quite remember what it had been like.  
But it hadn't been like this, had it?  
(Are you even technically dating?)  
You're not in love with Laura, are you?  
This doesn't feel like what you remember love being like, and you're pretty sure you'd been in love with Ell, at least for a little while.

And yet.  
Ell was a bleach-blonde whirlwind that managed to sweep you along, a strange graceful creature you could only hope to hold onto, flowery and fluttering and sharp-tongued. She made an adoring fool out of you, and you'd thought you liked that.

And Laura is something else entirely.  
Honey-colored hair that you're most familiar with when it's spread across your sheets, soft curves giving way to very traceable hips and the sort of legs only a danseuse can have, sexy as all fuck but possibly murderous when they're around your head.  
And when you're not dragging each other back to your apartment and tearing each others' clothes off, she's the biggest fucking _dork_ you've ever met, swimming in Doctor Who merch and forever clad in Hufflepuff-black-and-yellow. It should annoy you, it really should, but you can never seem to find it anything but adorable.

 

  
You're wading through the ballet troupe before you’re called to the theater when rehearsal rolls around again, unable to see Laura among all the dancers, and you feel someone's hand trailing up your arm.  
Someone who is very much not Laura.

You vaguely remember her....Elsie, maybe?  
She looks like a bad decision you made after college.  
And of course she's Odile.

You aren't really paying attention to what she's saying, but based on her tone, she remembers you a lot better than you remember her.

  
She is severely violating your personal space by the time you huff out a sigh and go to push her off of you.  
And of course, Laura takes that exact moment to walk in the door.

  
Laura stares, doe-eyes wide.  
Elsie’s mouth curls into a simpering smirk.  
And you’re frozen.

Laura turns on her heel down another hallway.  
And you know you’ve fucked up.

You manage to successfully push Elsie off of you and snarl something before you’re near-running after Laura, but before you can see where she’s flounced off to, you run into Perry.

“Rehearsal starts in two minutes,” she says, bouncing forward slightly on her toes, and you’re a little afraid of the death grip she has on her clarinet.

“Uh-huh,” you say, and let her herd you back to your case. Yes, you need to find Laura, but there are four things you fear in this life and one of them is Lola Perry with that steely, passive-aggressive glint in her eye.

  
You don’t see Laura for most of practice, but when she is onstage, you can’t tell whether her expression has to do with anger at you, Siegfried (who’s still quite handsy), or the director for mercilessly drilling scene after scene.  
Maybe it’s all three.

You pack up hurriedly afterward, hoping to find Laura before she leaves.  
You manage to catch up to her in the hallway. Her shoe ribbons are fisted in one hand.  
_Probably not a good sign._

“Laura,” you call out, and you realize you should've planned what to say before chasing after her. “That wasn't...I mean, she's not….”

  
Laura turns to face you, and to your surprise she doesn't really look angry, just conflicted.  
“I know,” she says quietly, eyes trained on the ground, “but that’s not really the point.”

“It was just a reminder, you know? That you're okay with things like this. You’re all _hey, cupcake_ and leather pants and a jawline that could probably cut glass or something and you’ve got that whole vampire-seductress vibe so it’s kind of hard to focus around you and I don’t even care that you slept with Elsie before but you’re fine with casual sex and I don’t know if I am so-”

“Laura,” you say again, because she’s ranting and if you’re getting a word in edgewise you want it to be that this isn’t just a casual thing.

“I just,” she sighs, “I just need some time to make up my mind, alright?”  
And that's how conversations end.  
Your original response doesn’t seem like the best idea at this point.

“Yeah.” Your voice is small. “Okay.”

You watch her leave, and while the feeling of totally-not-being-in-love-with-Laura is different than it had been with Ell, the pain you feel is exactly the same.

-  
You stop looking for her after rehearsals. You stop looking for her onstage (though you already know what scenes she’s in).  
Throwing yourself back into the rest of your life works, sort of.  
You get through the AP textbook (with some heavy editing, because the section on Pavlov was seriously flawed). You practice and practice and practice.  
And it feels alright, you suppose, but when you’re left to your thoughts you feel somewhat lacking.  
But that’s stupid, you think, to think that Laura’s ruined you this quickly. You’re not in love with her. It’s just a little loneliness, and you've been dealing with that for years.

There's a rather significant part of you that disagrees, but you tamp it down with distractions.  
-  
The night of the performance sneaks up on you and before you know it you're milling about in the pit as patrons trickle in, fingers nervously plucking out the more complicated bits of melody on Bagheera. You catch fleeting glimpses of Laura as the troupe stretches backstage.

LaFontaine is even looking more dapper than usual, all bow tie and suspenders and you smirk, seeing this doesn't go unnoticed by Perry, but you barely have time to observe this rather intriguing exchange before Danny’s ushering everyone into their places.

Inhale. Exhale.  
Your legs cross and uncross, one foot restlessly jigging before you will yourself to calm down.  
Inhale. Exhale.  
Your eyes scan the first few measures and snap up to the face of your expectant conductor.  
Strings digging lines into your fingertips, right hand curled around the frog of your bow, fingers light but able to coax your desired fortes from the violin with ease.  
Inhale.

Down-bow.

  
You allow yourself to get lost in the music. Your thoughts are muted, attention focused on line after line of sheet music.

Not a note goes out of place.  
Mother would be proud.

  
When your bow leaves the strings for the last time, you're brought back to focus with a roar of applause.  
Danny looks exhausted but grateful, turning to greet the crowd with a flourishing bow.

You see no one above the walls of the pit, but there is a cacophony from outside, a din of applause and whistles.  
You hear the soft drag of heavy curtains on the stage, and the audience grows even louder as each performer files out to take a bow.  
You can tell when it's Laura, because the clapping has just died down and it spikes again, louder than ever.  
Because she was perfect.  
You know she was perfect.

 

You wearily pack up Bagheera and file away sheet music, a strange cocktail of unhappiness, relief, and nervousness settling in your stomach. A small smile sneaks its way onto your face when Perry tugs at a surprised Lafontaine's suspenders and pulls them in to kiss them, but you manage to wrangle your facial muscles into the pretense of boredom before anyone sees.

You set your case down for a moment in the hall once everyone has gone out and slump against the wall for a moment with a sigh, closing your eyes.

When you look up, you see Laura, regarding you from a little ways down the hall. Her ballet shoes dangle from her hand, hair free of pins and cascading down her shoulders.  
Her expression is impossible to read.

"Laura..." You start, so sure of what you want her to know but so unsure how to say it.

  
"Shhh," she says, which you weren't expecting. She takes a few steps forward, silk-clad feet drawing close to yours.  
You stand for a moment like that, saying nothing, eyes trailing up her legs but too afraid to meet her eyes, too afraid to see what they hold.  
She still smells like cinnamon.  
You wonder briefly if you'll ever be able to smell cinnamon again without thinking of her.  
You doubt it.

It takes you a moment to realize when her fingers close around your wrist, but suddenly she's tugging you along behind her to places unknown.  
You focus on her fingers on your skin and nothing else and suddenly you find yourself in one of the theater's dressing rooms.  
Her grip loosens on your wrist but your throat tightens when she locks the door.  
You hop up on the desk to watch as she tosses aside her shoes and returns to close proximity, stepping with just a little hesitation into your space, and you force yourself to keep your hands on your own legs.  
You keep your voice low when you rasp out, “Does this mean you’ve made up your mind, cupcake?”

She takes a deep breath. “ I know that I told you I needed to think about things and I still don't know if I'm okay with casual sex but it's too hard to stay away from you and-”

Oh, thank god.

“Cupcake,” you say, “I don't really know what this is but I can say for sure that this isn't just casual, not for me. Okay?”

“Okay,” she murmurs, indecisive gaze flitting from your eyes to your mouth and back again.

You shift minimally. “So, um…”

  
Your eyes flutter closed when she kisses you.

  
You want to forget nothing about this.

Her fingers curl in the shoulders of your blazer, and yours go to her waist, tapping out absentminded patterns until you reach the small of her back. You trace her spine for a moment and she shivers.  
There you pause, thumbs pressing against her hips to push her back minimally, enough to see her blown pupils.  
Your voice is still low and quiet when you say, "While I’d love to continue this, maybe the dressing room isn’t the best place, hmm?"

She presses her head into your shoulder and you hear her huff with laughter.

 

God, this girl has ruined you.  
It feels like she's stamped herself into your skin, like she's woven the scent of cinnamon and the taste of vanilla throughout your house and across your taste buds and in, well, other places.  
None of your hazily constructed metaphors for Laura are fitting quite right in your head, but you chalk this up to the fact that she has you pressed up against the wall outside the theater and is tracing the line of your jaw with her tongue.  
Your fingers scrabble for purchase briefly against her back before curling around her hips, eyes rolling back as your senses are assaulted by that sinful mixture of cinnamon and vanilla (perhaps you ought to think of a name for it).

You tilt your head so you're properly kissing her again, tongue slipping lazily into her mouth for a few moments before the distant sound of a car engine revving reminds you rather suddenly that you're still in public.

  
“Impatient, are we?” You chuckle at the disappointed groan she lets out when you (very reluctantly) pull back in hopes of making it, at the very least, to your car.

 

Your apartment is dark and silent and drafty, windows flung open to let the uncharacteristically warm night air. The soft scent of the flora below your window drifts in in with the breeze, but your head is too full of Laura, Laura, Laura to notice.  
You kiss her there, languidly, in the soft dark of your bedroom, heart full and hammering against your ribs. Little broken sounds escape her as your fingers slowly knead her breasts, and she's so beautiful that it hurts, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed, spine arching against the cool surface of the door.  
You push her softly onto her back on your bed.

Maybe, you think, the universe has decided to be kind to you. Maybe the quirk of fate that put you in orbit around Laura is gracious enough not to remove you, because you're not sure you can live after hearing her moan, at least not without knowing you'll get to hear it again.

You've been with other girls, too many to count or recount, ones whose names and faces you don't remember or care to, but they might as well have never have happened.  
You accept that Laura's ruined you for anyone else, because she's it, you realize, she's all you need, all you're ever going to need.

You're utterly unhurried as you take her apart underneath you, fingers slow in their ministrations, mouth devoted to her collarbones. One of her hands is fisted in your sheets, the other mirroring its actions in your hair. Her eyes are turned up to the ceiling, bliss-wide pupils still swallowing up irises, and though her gaze is fixed you suspect she sees nothing.  
Your fingers crook inside of her and she's pushed over the edge, throat erupting in the loudest (and best) moan you've heard from her to date. Her legs shake and you work her through slowly, waiting for her screwed-tight eyes to open.

You again beseech the kindness of the universe as she looks up at you, gaze heavy and so full of emotion that it steals your breath. You wish on every undulating galaxy, every silently spinning planet, all the stars dotting the ever-expanding nothing, every last meteor streak across the sky that maybe, just maybe, she's yours.  
And then, suddenly, you find yourself on your back, and all your thoughts dissipate.

  
When she's asleep, you whisper it, nose pressed to the column of her throat.  
_I love you_ , you whisper, and you lose track of how many times your words are swallowed up by the night.  
You, love-struck and hopeless creature fashioned of stardust, hope the stars are pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked it, please do share, and if you have requests don't hesitate to ask (I also am in possession of a Tumblr at way-past-strange).  
> Hopefully, more things like this coming soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave feedback if you enjoyed!  
> It is one in the morning and I should really be asleep; hopefully, Chapter 2 will be up within a reasonable time period.


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